Let it pass from hand to hand,
Circling still with ceaseless flight,
Till the streaks of gray expand
O'er the fleeting robe of night.

As night flits, she does but cry,
"Seize the moments that remain"--
Thus our joys with yours shall vie,
Tenants of yon hallow'd fane!

DIALOGUE BY RAIS

_Rais_:

Maid of sorrow, tell us why
Sad and drooping hangs thy head?
Is it grief that bids thee sigh?
Is it sleep that flies thy bed?

_Lady_:

Ah! I mourn no fancied wound,
Pangs too true this heart have wrung,
Since the snakes which curl around
Selim's brows my bosom stung.

Destin'd now to keener woes,
I must see the youth depart,
He must go, and as he goes
Rend at once my bursting heart.

Slumber may desert my bed,
Tis not slumber's charms I seek--
'Tis the robe of beauty spread
O'er my Selim's rosy cheek.

TO A LADY WEEPING[19]

When I beheld thy blue eyes shine
Thro' the bright drop that pity drew,
I saw beneath those tears of thine
A blue-ey'd violet bath'd in dew.

The violet ever scents the gale,
Its hues adorn the fairest wreath,
But sweetest thro' a dewy veil
Its colors glow, its odors breathe.

And thus thy charms in brightness rise--
When wit and pleasure round thee play,
When mirth sits smiling in thine eyes,
Who but admires their sprightly ray?
But when thro' pity's flood they gleam,
Who but must love their soften'd beam?

_Ebn Alrumi_.

[19] Ebn Alrumi is reckoned by the Arabian writers as one of the most
excellent of all their poets. He was by birth a Syrian, and passed
the greatest part of his time at Emessa, where he died A.H. 283.

ON A VALETUDINARIAN

So careful is Isa, and anxious to last,
So afraid of himself is he grown,
He swears thro' two nostrils the breath goes too fast,
And he's trying to breathe thro' but one.

_Ebn Alrumi_.

ON A MISER

"Hang her, a thoughtless, wasteful fool,
She scatters corn where'er she goes"--
Quoth Hassan, angry at his mule,
That dropt a dinner to the crows.

_Ebn Alrumi_.

TO CASSIM OBIO ALLAH[20]

Poor Cassim! thou art doom'd to mourn
By destiny's decree;
Whatever happens it must turn
To misery for thee.

Two sons hadst thou, the one thy pride,
The other was thy pest;
Ah, why did cruel death decide
To snatch away the best?

No wonder